


Marked

by INMH



Series: hc_bingo fanfiction fills 2020 [25]
Category: The Order: 1886
Genre: Angst, Crushes, Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, One-Sided Attraction, Past Violence, Scars, Serious Injuries, Strong Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:48:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25904608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INMH/pseuds/INMH
Summary: Isabeau waits for her neck to heal.
Relationships: Isabeau D'Argyll & Alastair D'Argyll, Isabeau D'Argyll & Grayson
Series: hc_bingo fanfiction fills 2020 [25]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1789369
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Marked

Isabeau could not stay still anymore.  
  
True, though the injury on her neck and jaw was healing slowly, and the damaged skin pulsed a little less violently with every hour that passed, it seemed that the Blackwater was still taking its sweet time growing accustomed to her body. It was the first time she had imbibed it since she had become a Knight.  
  
“It takes time,” Alastair had soothed her earlier, even though Isabeau had already heard the physician telling the Chancellor that she would have permanent scars on her jaw, neck, and collarbone from the Lycan’s claws. “It never heals instantaneously, especially not the first time. But you will be fine.”  
  
Isabeau supposed that that depended on Alastair’s definition of ‘fine’.  
  
It was no small thing to have been formally, officially admitted to the Order at fourteen years-old, the youngest Knight ever, and Isabeau sought to maintain the pride she’d seen in her father’s eyes when she’d taken Igraine’s mantle a year before. She had trained harder and faster than the small handful of other apprentices, had run Grayson absolutely ragged (not that he’d admit it) for years in her efforts to be the best. Even some of the older, more skeptical Knights (especially the originals, like the Chancellor) had been impressed by her achievement.  
  
And in the span of only a few hours, all of that hard-earned respect had shattered before her eyes: They were no longer looking at her as a Knight, but as the Chancellor’s young daughter, with the sort of pity one afforded to a child and not a colleague. Isabeau deplored being seen as a child, deplored the saccharine tones and padded gentility afforded to the Chancellor’s daughter.  
  
“They don’t speak to _you_ that way,” she had complained once to Alastair over dinner. It perhaps did not help her case that she had been swinging her legs furiously, a little too short to set them on the ground in the chair she was sitting in.  
  
“You are twelve years-old, Isabeau,” he explained gently. “I am one-hundred sixty-one years-old. When you’ve grown a little more they will come to view you as an adult and not a child.”  
  
The idea had been absolutely unpalatable at the time; Isabeau could not have known that Lady Igraine would be mauled by a Lycan a year and a half later, or that the council would agree that she was the best replacement for the late and great Lady. She had forced her hands not to shake as she had accepted Igraine’s vial of Blackwater, more from euphoria than nervousness.  
  
Isabeau fingered that vial now as she prowled the halls. Why wasn’t the Blackwater working faster? She’d witnessed Grayson drink some not all that long before she had been attacked, and his wound had healed within minutes. She needed the Blackwater to work _now_ , needed it to render the claw-marks on her jaw and neck invisible- or at least, very hard to see. Her collarbone was negotiable, as it was not something that she generally displayed to the public.  
  
Her neck and jaw, however, were.  
  
And Isabeau did not need a very visible reminder of her failure to keep an eye on her surroundings, a reminder that she was still a _child_ prone to making silly and stupid mistakes and not really a _Knight_ on par with the rest of the Order.  
  
Eventually she settled in the library; being up and about was aggravating her injury and she needed to sit. Her father and brother were nowhere to be found, likely still dealing with the fallout from their clash with the Lycans, and so she was entirely alone for the time being. Glowering, Isabeau settled into an armchair, curling her legs up and under her body. “Bloody Lycans,” she growled to herself, because she was alone and neither the Chancellor nor Alastair was there to chastise her for her language.  
  
She sat for a time, hyper-focusing on the pain and discomfort of her injuries and waiting for them to fade. She turned the vial over in her hand, wondering if she should take another dose- there weren’t any known dangers to taking too much Blackwater, only the inconvenience of having to replenish it with one’s blood again. Alastair had told her that there was no point to taking anymore, but perhaps she should. Perhaps it would make things move just a _little_ faster-  
  
“Staring at it won’t make it work any better.”  
  
Isabeau jerked, grimacing when her damaged skin burned. Grayson was standing in the doorway, and she had not even noticed when he’d come in: Shameful, considering that her last lapse in attention had led to her being viciously mauled by a Lycan. One would think she would have learned. “Well, it certainly can’t hurt.”  
  
Grayson gave a slight shrug, pacing over to another chair near to hers and sitting down. “You’d be better off going back to bed and letting the Blackwater do its work with _patience_.”  
  
Isabeau rolled her eyes. If there was one regular criticism that Grayson had levied against her, it was her significant lack of patience. “I cannot sleep, and staring at the ceiling becomes boring after a time.”  
  
“Yes, that sounds like you.”  
  
Isabeau’s cheeks grew warm at Grayson’s teasing. Few people teased her so warmly, save for her father and brother. It did not help that her mentor was a handsome man, barely older than Alastair- well, in appearance anyway. She had been reliably informed that Grayson was something like twenty-four actual years older than her brother- and one-hundred seventy-three years older than Isabeau herself.  
  
Yet another important someone who would never see her as anything more than a mere child.  
  
“It fixed you almost immediately,” Isabeau grunted. At Grayson’s furrowed brow she said, “When you were shot- the Blackwater fixed you almost instantly.”  
  
“Well, Isabeau, my injuries were considerably less violent than yours,” Grayson responded. “You were clawed up rather badly. The fact that you’re even able to be up and about in the wake of such injuries is a testament to how well the Blackwater is working, and quite well at that.”  
  
That wasn’t what Isabeau wanted to hear, and so she fell into a moody silence.  
  
When Isabeau failed to complain further, Grayson offered yet another shrug and stood, moving over to a particular shelf and browsing through the books until he found what he was looking for. She didn’t need to strain to see the title: _Le Morte d’Arthur_ was a fairly regular choice for many within the Order. Grayson returned to his seat, opened to a seemingly random section, and began to read silently.  
  
Isabeau wasn’t sure why, but she found it aggravating. “Can you not read somewhere else?”  
  
“If my presence vexes you so, your highness, then perhaps you ought to return to your room?” Grayson responded easily, without even looking up from the book.  
  
Isabeau huffed, sinking further into the chair.  
  
Her neck ached, healing skin perturbed that she would contort herself into such a shape while it worked. Her jaw itched, an indicator that perhaps the wound had finally managed to close properly. Her collarbone burned, however, very nearly as badly as it had when the Lycan had attacked her. _I will be maimed,_ Isabeau thought- and then chastised herself for such self-pity, because there were others who had suffered far more gruesome injuries and not become pariahs for it.  
  
“If it offers you any comfort,” Grayson intoned, “Perhaps it is better that the Blackwater not work to perfection. Scars do have a way of making one look more the part of a warrior, do they not?”  
  
He had a very funny way of knowing what was on Isabeau’s mind most of the time, and though she would not confess it under torture, she did find some comfort in the possibility that respect could and would be afforded to one who had visible evidence of their battles.  
  
Still, when she was reasonably certain that Grayson was not paying attention, she took another small sip of Blackwater.  
  
Just in case.  
  
[---]  
  
An hour later, Alastair happened upon Isabeau asleep in her chair, and Grayson still calmly reading in his. “What’s this?”  
  
Grayson shrugged. “She refused to go back to bed.”  
  
Alastair sighed, shaking his head. “Stubborn.” He regarded his little sister thoughtfully. “How angry do you think she’ll be in the morning if she wakes up and finds that I’ve carried her back to bed like a child?”  
  
“Alastair,” Grayson chuckled, marking the page and shutting the book, “That is precisely why I waited for _you_ to come and get her.”  
  
“Your solidarity touches the very core of my being, Gray,” Alastair remarked flatly. “I fairly tremble with gratitude.”  
  
“No, trembling is what you’ll be doing tomorrow when Isi awakens and finds that big brother has tucked her off into bed like a little girl,” Grayson said, offering Alastair a smirk.  
  
“We shall _all_ tremble when that happens,” Alastair responded as he lifted Isabeau carefully into his arms. “Me for carrying her, and you for not striking me down on the spot for such an insult.”  
  
“I have no doubt.” Grayson followed Alastair from the library.   
  
“Did she seem improved at all?” Alastair asked quietly as they neared Isabeau’s room. “I know she was concerned about the efficacy of the Blackwater earlier.”  
  
Grayson hummed, considering. “Concerned, yes- but she will endure. Your sister is tougher than most.”  
  
“You speak true. Still, a brother worries.”  
  
“As do we all.”  
  
-End


End file.
